Invictus
by Ranger-Nova
Summary: If he had nothing else, he would always have his own will.


"She hadn't done anything to you. She was good—kind."

He looked up. So the Doctor was back from another trip to the barn. Just when he thought they'd have some peace and quiet.

"Why did you do this?" There wasn't quite the same anger that had burned in his enemy's voice before. The Doctor's face, already well worn, seemed to have gained new lines during their stay at the farm, and his eyes had sunken deeper into his skull. "Was it because of me? Did you do this to her just to get back at me?"

A short laugh escaped his lips. "Ah, because everything's always about you, isn't it, Doctor?" The Master shook his head. "Well, maybe not this time. Maybe I did it for me."

"Why?" Some of the anger returned, like the low rumblings of distant thunder. "Did you think it was funny? Cruelty for the sake of cruelty?"

"And what's wrong with that?" The Master took a step towards him. "At least then you're being honest, instead of hiding cruelty behind noble causes. If you're going to hurt someone you might as well enjoy it." He smiled. "But you're still wrong, old man. I didn't do it for _me_ , I did it for _her_. So she would see."

The Doctor narrowed his eyes. "See what?"

"Who we really are."

"Who you are, maybe."

He laughed again. "She can pretend to be good little Missy all she wants. She's still me underneath—unless you really have brainwashed her. She's the person who turned Bill Potts into a walking appliance, just as much as I am." He turned away. "We are who we are, Doctor, and there's nothing you can do to change that."

"There's always the possibility of change," said the Doctor. "You and I changed. We're not those two children on Gallifrey anymore, gazing up at the stars. People change all the time. We can all decide to be a little bit better than we were the day before. Or a little bit worse."

The Master was silent a moment. "I didn't know who I was, back on Gallifrey," he said. "But I do now. That's the difference."

"And who are you now that's so special?"

"I'm the Master."

"Nobody cares! You're not the master of anything, and you never really have been. Have you ever stopped to wonder who you are underneath all your silly titles and games, hmm? Have you ever wondered if maybe there's another way to define yourself?"

He smiled tightly. "No."

* * *

Twigs crunched under his boots as they marched through the forest. She was lingering behind—still thinking about the Doctor, probably. But at least she'd made the right choice in the end. He gazed over his shoulder for a moment, watching as a light artificial breeze teased at one of her curls. Their eyes didn't meet; her gaze was on her feet.

What would it be like to become her? Would he really willingly enter a thousand year captivity with the Doctor one day? She could do so much—be so much. He could feel the power humming beneath the surface, the burning intensity that could wipe out a hundred planets like a cat swatting a fly if she let it loose. But she didn't. She kept herself buttoned up tight in frocks and promises.

He sighed. Did the Doctor's approval mean so much? He'd wanted it at times, of course. But he wouldn't change for it. What was the point of that? The only way it would be truly satisfying was if the Doctor realised he'd been right all along. That would never happen now, though. Even the Doctor, with all his tricks, was unlikely to get out of this one.

He paused to look back again, this time at the hills they were leaving behind. He imagined a version of events where the Doctor came scrambling down those hills, waving his arms in that ridiculous way of his, and calling to the pair of them to wait. It wouldn't happen, of course, but if it did, he supposed he would smile and say, "Need a lift?" And then he would find something terribly nasty to say just so they knew where they all stood. But they would keep walking and he would let the Doctor follow. The three of them would leave the ship and its doomed inhabitants behind and then... who knew?

But it would never happen that way. The Doctor would die the way he was always meant to—the way he'd always wanted to. An idiot. Once, a long time ago, he'd found the Doctor's idiocy endearing. Now he was weary of it. But if the Doctor wanted to throw his life away, who was he stop him? The man had been right about one thing. Everyone stood or fell on their beliefs—on who they were. This was who the Doctor was.

 _And this is who I am._ Much as he hated to admit it, there were many things he would've done for the Doctor. He'd even risked his life for him once. But compromise? Never. Maybe the Doctor wouldn't live to admit it, but he _was_ right. He was right to run, right to leave these pathetic little people to die, right to betray Bill, right to do everything he'd ever done. Right to be the Master.

He had to be right. He'd wasted too many lifetimes to be wrong now.


End file.
